ONE TO WATCH

ONE TO WATCH: PROLOGUE

Milan Fashion Week

Two women and a man strode down the wide, cobbled street, passing the shuttered façade of Palazzo Castani. The first hints of Spring were in the air, and across from Police Headquarters, two journalists are huddled on a park bench, trying to shake off the lingering morning chill.

"This is it," said the reporter—a rookie columnist with a flair for drama.

"Those faces look familiar," her photographer remarked. The group was tall and model-thin, their glossy accessories standing out in vibrant colours against chic black outfits. The photographer had snapped hundreds of models during fashion week. Although his instincts told him this group of unknowns wouldn't make it to the cover of Vogue, he knew better than to dismiss them outright. Rumor had it that a Venezuelan model had disappeared, and someone was in custody. Such publicity could catapult a career.

They don't look like talking," the reporter mumbled.

"Get in there!" the photographer said, lifting his lens.

The sound of the camera's shutter opening and closing at top speed, spurred the reporter into action. She approached the group with a bold stride, microphone outstretched, noting how each of them recoiled from the lens.

"Scusi? Un attimo del vostro tempo?"

The group ignored her. The man, a willowy twenty-something, turned to the woman beside him and whispered something inaudible. She clutched at his arm, and they quickened pace, the other woman following closely.

"Scusi?"

"We don't speak Italian," the women at the back mumbled.

"A moment of your time? Please?"

"Leave us."

"Is it true what they say—Bibiana Rivas—is she missing?"

"Damn it!" the man exclaimed.

"No, it's not true!" someone hissed. "Nick, tell her it's not true."

"Are you heading to Commissariato Centro?" the reporter pressed.

"Leave us. Per favore?"

"Just a few questions?"

"Nick, don't say a word!"

"I'm a reporter for the Corriere della Sera. Please, just one quote on record? You'd be well compensated."

The second woman waved her hand dismissively at the pair, muttering something unintelligible, her ash blonde ponytail swinging wildly.

"We're not celebrities," her friend said. "You can't do this."

"Yes, we're private citizens," the ponytail woman asserted. "We have rights."

"We're not paparazzi," the reporter insisted, raising her voice to be heard over the sound of a passing bus. "Do you know who's in custody?"

The group quickened their pace despite their impractical footwear. The reporter observed how each of them walked in the same way, marching in time, as if to a beat, their heads held high and straight, long arms dangling by their sides.

"Do you know a Delyan Nikolov?" The question hung in the air. "Can you confirm an arrest?"

The reporter halted suddenly, as one of the women stumbled forward with a shrill cry, sprawling inelegantly across the cobblestones. The group gathered around her.

"Are you alright?" the man asked as he crouched to his knees.

The woman pushed herself upright and sat back on her heels. "I'm okay." She seemed more annoyed than hurt. The reporter thought she resembled a young Whitney Houston. The contents of a heart-shaped blue leather bag were scattered across the street.

Her friend who had been walking behind the Whitney look-alike, turned to face the journalists. "Please," she pleaded. "My friend is hurt. Can you move away?"

"But—" the reporter began.

"But nothing!" the woman interjected, flashing a set of pearly white teeth. "You are so rude! This is harassment. Look at what you did!" She pointed to her friend, who was precariously perched on her knees, strands of silver-beaded dreadlocks hanging across her face.

The reporter recoiled at the force of the accusation. She had been ready to help but took a step back. Her colleague placed a protective arm around her.

The man they called Nick glanced at the journalists and shook his head. He extended a crooked elbow to the woman on the ground. "Violet's going to spit nails when she gets here," he muttered to no one in particular. He seemed older than the other two, dressed in leather-piped pants and a too-tight black crew neck—perhaps last night's attire.

"Has anyone called Violet?" the blonde woman asked, stretching to retrieve a tube of lipstick from the middle of the street.

"Shush!" said the Whitney look-alike. She stood up on her towering heels, tugging awkwardly at her tiny skirt.

The man glanced at his wristwatch. "I would if I could, but I don't know her number. Besides, she's already in the air."

"It's not our fault," said the blonde woman, her cheeks flushed crimson.

"Too right it's not our fault. If anyone's to blame, it's her bloody boyfriend!"

"Nick!" the Whitney look-alike hissed, glancing nervously at the reporter. "Know when to shut up already—"

The man shrugged.

The reporter saw a moment of vulnerability in the group and stepped closer. "Can you tell me anything? Off the record—"

The blonde woman lunged forward, her voluptuous lips curling into a tight snarl. "I swear to God, if you don't leave us alone, I'm going to scream!"

The reporter raised her hands, her microphone dangling between her thumb and forefinger. "I'm sorry," she said. "Scusa. I'm gone!"

"Charlie, it's not worth it," the man said. "C'mon. Let's go."

With a quick spin, the reporter retreated, her photographer close behind. "There's something there," she whispered.

"Agreed," said the photographer, a slow grin spreading across his face.

Once they were a safe distance away, the journalists huddled at a bus shelter, watching like hawks as the group disappeared around the corner. Their synchronized walk was now out of sync since the fall.

"Did you get anything half decent?" the reporter asked, turning to her colleague.

"Too soon to tell. Lighting's fantastic though."

The reporter took out her phone and briefly jotted down a few notes:

o Check out Violet...

o Milan Malpensa Airport?

There was no time to waste. They had front row tickets to the story of the decade and needed to act before the world's media descended.

"Game plan over coffee?" she suggested.

"Yes. Let's do it."

The sun was high in the sky now, and the photographer removed his jacket. "Are you hot?"

The reporter nodded in agreement, slipping back into Italian.

"Sì, fa caldo."